


Oh Yes He Is.....

by telemachus



Category: Pride (2014)
Genre: M/M, cross-dressing, day-in-day-out compromise, pantomime
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-08
Updated: 2015-12-08
Packaged: 2018-05-05 15:46:11
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 830
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5380886
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/telemachus/pseuds/telemachus
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Glimpse of life.</p><p>Could be pre or post film - not sure, to be honest.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Oh Yes He Is.....

**Author's Note:**

> As ever, characters in the film, not real people.

“What’s this?” and before Gethin can say – nothing that will interest you, cariad, just something I was reading – Jonathan has picked it up, “Gender Subversion in Pantomime – oh for – Geth darling, give it a rest. It’s not a lifestyle choice. It’s a job – a part – a not-quite-West-End-but-near-enough part.”

Gethin nods, “hm,” and pretends to believe him.

But they have been together too long – he knows the contents of Jonathan’s wardrobe too well – for that.

But Jonathan frowns, raises an eyebrow, and stares until he meets his eyes,

“More like Prime Minister’s bloody Question Time,” he says, “but with less booing, more principled boys and a happy ending.”

He’s been working on that, Gethin thinks, resignedly, I daresay I shall hear it at a few parties this season.

But he smiles anyway, as best he can.

Obviously not very well, because there is a sigh, and, 

“Really,” he adds, “it’s a job. It pays. Pays the bloody rent,”

And Gethin feels his face freeze. Because he has never, never once, asked for rent money. He would not. Not when they were friends, not now they are so much more.

Do not shout, do not lose your temper, he tells himself, do not.

It is not good for his health.

Bite it back, swallow it down.

Always, always keep control.

Some of it must show in his eyes – and Jonathan is contrite.

“Sorry,” he says, “not the rent. The other bills,” an instant of silence, and then he shrugs, “and don’t say you can manage. I know you can. That hardly helps my self-esteem. Christ, I’m not ready to be a kept-man just yet. There’s still life in me. Still got what it takes.”

“I know,” Gethin says, and he’d give anything to be the sort who can turn an answer into innuendo. He was, once.

But not now, not since everything changed.

So he just smiles, tightly, and Jonathan nods, blinks, and puts the damn book down. Heads towards the kitchen, and Gethin has to almost physically stop himself jumping up, going to make tea – or whatever it is he wants – has to let him do it. Not fuss over him.

Even if Jonathan is tired, deserves fussing, even if Gethin is worried he won’t bother to wait for the kettle, will just drink gin.

He shouldn’t drink, not much, not regularly.

But then, he probably shouldn’t smoke, should eat properly, should take more care of himself.

Don’t start an argument you can’t win, Gethin tells himself, don’t. 

“Anyway,” he says instead, glad of any distraction – even this pretty one, this lad whose name once made him feel sick with loathing, “Ricky was round, wanting to know about – I don’t know – something you’d promised to help with? And there was a letter – I left it through there – looks like it’s to do with the wardrobe job.”

From the theatre logo on the envelope.

Please, Gethin thinks, please let that be an interview, a job. Costume design, or whatever they call it. Because the parts are indeed drying up, and he cannot always be needing emergency help in the shop – which he cannot afford, not really, but how else to keep some pride – and no politics, no cause seems to catch Jonathan’s attention, light him up. Not at the moment, and Gethin understands why, he does, but sometimes – sometimes something big, outside, something to lose yourself in – it helps. Only he doesn’t have the words to say it.

Anyway. The letter.

Jonathan grunts, and there is a tearing of paper. 

Nothing else.

Gethin doesn’t know what to make of that. Doesn’t dare ask again.

“Any chance of an early night?” he asks instead, because he has to be up at six tomorrow, prep the shop; busy season for retail – well, and for pantomime, he supposes. One of those times when he could wish their hours were more co-ordinated.

Another reason to hope this job comes to something. It would be better, he thinks. 

Maybe not.

But at least Jonathan wouldn’t be racketing about all over London, just one straightforward commute.

Ruefully he wonders why he bothers pretending.

Jonathan will do as he pleases, as he always does.

And Gethin will give in, as he always seems to, charmed by a smile, and a hug, and a whispered endearment from his beloved.

Then he walks back through,

“Early night sounds good,” he says, and that slow smile has Gethin aching instantly, even as Jonathan knows it will, and, sure of his reception, he reaches out a hand, “come on then, sweetheart, take me to bed and ravish me.” 

Then he pulls Gethin close, the remnants of stage make-up making his face, already perfect to a lover's eyes, even more clearly defined, and adds in that voice, that voice that seems to build a world of conspiracy and lust just for them, “If you’re lucky, another night I’ll even bring my costume home.”

Gethin closes his eyes, lost – all his weaknesses known too well.

**Author's Note:**

> .
> 
> (and yes, I know "genuine" cross-dressing & pantomime dames have little in common. But Jonathan does say he has been in panto, & I can't see another part that fits, to be honest. Possibly the evil-King-Rat type, but - i'm not convinced.)


End file.
